“I asked the boy beneath the pines.
— Searching for the Hermit in Vain
He said, ‘The master’s gone alone
herb-picking somewhere on the mount,
cloud-hidden, whereabouts unknown.‘”
by Chia Tao
This dying little town,
the one I happened to be driving
through late one night,
or maybe it was early one morning?
No matter —
this little known hamlet
was like any other single
crossing establishment;
any other prospect town
that went nowhere fast and preferred it that way,
it even had one of those
MINI MART
places
that had more letters in its name than words;
the kind of store
I could never understand how
or why they became nationwide
franchises;
link
by
link, connected together,
forming a chain of convenience,
all the while enslaving with its chains.
Coincidentally,
I found one
in every single town
I so desperately tried
to get away from.
Regardless,
I carefully pulled
into the parking lot of a bar that screamed
“I am of a questionable reputation, but my drinks will make you forget all of that!”
Ever so slowly, I put my car into park
with a heart surgeon’s precision
and bedside manner.
I stepped outside
and straight into a puddle of beer,
runoff water that had nowhere to run,
and a school of cigarette butt fish.
I let out a deep sigh,
thinking to myself,
people are nothing
but rose bushes
without the roses.
Letting go of my
disappointment, I made my way
towards the front door, my polished
black shine boots seemed to melt into
the slick cobblestone pavement; spilled ink
upon an oil slick.
The light from the windows shone
through like a faded candle light
from within a beer bottle.
Inside, the glow was the
same, an amber shell
of luminosity. The smoke that
lingered at the ceiling seemed
to have been there for
who knows
how long; a
permanent fixture a
murky veil hiding both good and
ill underneath from the prying eyes
above.
As I stood at the entrance foyer, I was greeted by the hostess, who smiled at me with a mouth that was as thin as a razor blade. Her hair was tied up in such a way that her voluminous curls flowed over her head like root beer from a rootbeer float. Her eyes gleamed like pretty blue sapphires, matching her pretty little dreams, and her pretty blue wishes.
A siren suddenly tore the night in half as a
downtown train howled its horn in reply. The
piano player in the corner, down towards
the bar, said that his current piano was an
alcoholic, but admittedly, less abusive than
his previous. He went on to say that the rug
out back needed a haircut and the wine rack
needed a new hearing aid, unlike the
bartender who purposely misheard,
misjudged, and mispronounced every
misunderstanding that was brought to him. The
piano player then said that he would gladly accept
all donations to help them all, but nobody really
knows if it’s true, and to that point, nobody
actually cared.
All of the waitresses carried Geiger counters,
allowing them to get a good read
on their various guests and patrons,
all the while checking the ashtrays,
of whom patiently wait for their day to retire.
At the end of the bar sat a man
whose skin looked like a burlap sack,
which I found to be quite appropriate,
as the rest of his appearance resembled
a well-weathered scarecrow.
And if my father is to be believed,
you should never trust a scarecrow
wearing shades in the dark.
Of course, this man wasn’t wearing any shades;
they were off to his side,
next to his empty shot glasses,
but whatever — close enough.
Everyone here had their own conversations,
hushed and muffled by the tension of the room;
each drawing out their discourses and discussions,
I could almost see the longing they all seeked,
something they all wanted, just outside their reach.
The men boasted like dying peacocks,
as the women listened intently
with secret smiles in the corners of their mouths.
The evening stumbled on by
like an exhausted factory worker
just waiting to get home;
waiting to find a reason to drink.
Myself, I had begun to feel
like a ten ton
catastrophe
swinging
from
a
sixty pound rope,
as I finally found a place
to crash down: a faux leather
couch, infested with
feather cobras.
For whatever reason, my mind suddenly thought, ‘Somewhere back home, down on Wilcox Street, an aging pimp is feeding ice cream to a pack of stray dogs; one of those 50¢ sugar cones that come in twenty packs at the Circle-K; oh how the mighty have fallen.‘
All around me wet good daughters and sons of uncertain reputations; devious mother’s and noble father’s, and everyone in-between — they all seemed to gather here. They were the kind of group who would scatter like a murder of crows before a hawk, or a conspiracy of lemurs and pigeons, before the truth of the matter at hand.
In the corner next to the drunk not- drunk piano player sat a pile of smoke-kissed furniture going for a dime a pound, a barstool for twenty, or free drinks all night just to take the whole decomposing lot away. Then out of nowhere, a jockey, full of bourbon and nicotine, began to tap dance on top of the piano, as if he had accidentally stepped on the Devil’s tail. Wearing two pairs of pants and a dead man’s vest, he spun and tapped his little heart out, until someone fired off a two dollar pistol with silver bullets; mental bullets; bullets that were far more expensive than the weapon they were vomited from.
It wasn’t really a mess,
but it was far from clean.
Then again,
the question begged to be asked:
who am I to judge?
The windows broke the silence
with the pitter-patter of rain from outside,
as the wispy smoke of cigars and cigarettes
effortlessly floated up to join the ranks
of their ancestors upon the ceiling,
adding yet another layer
of super-strata filament of ashen history;
filled with disappointments,
betrayals,
loves,
joys,
dealings,
promises,
contracts,
and best,
or worst,
of all — memories.
“Does anybody wish to be my saviour,”
sang the piano player,
“and pull me up by my hair?”
A pleading tune it was, but I doubted that anyone here was fit enough to be anyone else’s saviour.
A waitress eventually came up to where I was seated, with the oddest of questions dangling from her full lips:
“Why so serious?”
“Excuse me?” I replied meekly.
“I said, ‘Why. So. Serious-ah?‘”
she repeated,
emphasizing every syllable,
and then some.
“I don’t know. I’m just a little lost, I guess.“
A second passed.
Then another.
And another.
“How about — a magic trick?” she suddenly proposed.
A crooked lightning smile spread across her
otherwise placid face.
“No, I think I’m good—” I had begun to say, but she interrupted me.
“I can make this pencil DISAPPEAR,”
proclaimed the waitress, slyly.
Where the pencil came from,
I couldn’t tell you.
Probably from her pocket,
or sleeve,
or even her overflowing hair.
Her hair —
now that was real magic,
let me tell you:
women’s hair defies all laws of physics.
All of those styles throughout history,
a defiant middle finger
to the universe at hand;
a coalition of hairpins,
hairspray,
hair dye,
and a whole lot of cash to burn.
So many flammables all in one place.
Regardless,
she performed her trick;
I blinked;
missed the whole thing; gave her a tip anyways.
A few minutes passed and she returned with a dish I clearly did not order, but have it to me nonetheless, and I accepted it.
“This one’s on the house,” she commented bashfully, her cheeks turning red as ladybugs.
‘What a strange woman,‘ I told myself,
but thanked her regardless. ‘Maybe this place isn’t so bad,‘ I continued
to tell myself
as the waitress continued
to blush her crimson tides.
This place may be a mess,
but what isn’t these days?
At least the food was hot
and the beer was cold.
I almost thought about staying,
planting down in that strange little town,
but you know what they say:
the best thing about a small town — is leaving.
FIN
A Place for Stories 